


Promises made

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Child death - only mentioned, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: Olivier had only then truly understood what it meant that she was betrothed already, to a prince not even born. She’d be much older than her husband, would probably carry many burdens in his stead, would maybe even have to rule. When seeing how the other young girls her age talked about betrothals and what was expected of them, she felt like she’d gotten almost lucky.Looking back on these memories of her childhood-thoughts, she questioned if luck had truly had a hand in her fate, or if it maybe was something else. Was taken with how things had changed, how different the truth of the now was from the one she'd known before. Yet Olivier knew that she'd take it on, whatever may be.





	1. Ten - Twelve - Eight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NorthernWall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernWall/gifts).



> Happy Birthday my love!
> 
> Here is the second part of your gift: The arranged-marriage AU! I really hope you like it and I guess you'll be happy to hear that I have like... 40 handwritten pages full of story ;) My greatest inspiration you are :D Also peoples: read NorthernWalls stories. Honestly.

Part 1 - Miles

“Don’t slack off! Defend!”

The staff coming for his left side quick, too quick, Javed unable to avoid it. His body working by itself instead, the sound of his own staff beating away that of his grandfather forcing him into a surprised pause. Stood there, breathing hard and watching as his grandfather’s face gave him a glimpse of a smile. Then the staff of his grandfather hitting his chest in a swift movement.

Javed landed hard on the stones.

“And don’t gape when you do something right! How often have I told you to not neglect your defence?!”

Rubbing his behind Javed got up, looking to the ground in shame.

The swirling mosaic of blue and red not enough to distract him from the burning of his cheeks, nor from how watery his eyes felt. Yet he tried not to shiver, not to give in. How could he ever life down embarrassing grandfather Zosimos further with his tears? Instead felt his knuckles crack when holding his weapon more tightly, ready to be chewed out for his inattentiveness.

_“Half-bred mutt!”_

_“Weakling traitor!”_

_“Spy!”_

Javed already heard the taunts in his head, never coming from his grandfather or aimed at him, people respecting him too much to ever dare and badmouth him. These horrible words aimed at Javed instead, at the fact that he was the child of four nations, two of which his people were not at peace with. That, while his mother was well-respected, only Zosimos Miles was considered of decent ancestry in truth.

The other children appalled by how he looked much more Ishvalan then them and yet sounded the least like it.

The hand on his shoulder was unexpected.

“Javed,” his grandfathers voice so soft this time, “you’ve learned so much already, are striding forward in your training and studies at a fast pace. Yet, I need you to concentrate, to not surrender…”

“But you beat me every time! Everybody does, _never_ do I win! I only ever defend and defend and defend, I never _fight_!”

The look he got stern, the transgression of interrupting one Javed usually did not commit anymore.

“And this is your purpose boy, to defend! You’re a Miles, a defender, a guard to your country and our way of life! Whatever makes this so hard to understand?”

Had expected to be screamed at, to be scolded and yet Zosimos voice was calm, warm like the sun shining down on them. It became harder to hold back the tears of frustration.

“I’m not like anybody here, people laugh about me, gape at me! I see their faces when I do something wrong or do not behave like them enough, their giggles, their…”

A hand on his chin then, huge and calloused, turned even darker by the constant work out in the sun. Gentle though, Javed’s chin lifted and the shift in posture helping the tears on their way down his cheeks.

“Javed Miles, third of this name, youngest of the oldest clan. Do you truly only desire to be as Ishvalan as can be?”

Could only nod, felt the sob wait in his throat and was not willing to let the sound go free.

“And you think that simply belonging to a group of people will make you special? _Being_ yourself makes you so, and _nothing_ else!”

The embrace of his grandfather following these words tight, Javed feeling unable to supress his emotions now. Cried, sobbed and felt miserable for many more moments, until he felt the tears subside a little. For a moment then wondered, looked around, fearing that the usual people had seen him cry, bawl like a baby he wasn’t anymore.

To his surprise there was no-one there. Only Zosimos Miles kneeling in front of him, looking at him with his deep red eyes and a frown on his face.

“Are the other kids giving you trouble again?”

The lump constricting his words before had seemingly subsided together with his tears.

“Yes grandfather. They mock me for not being a pure-blooded Ishvalan, and that I always loose and that I haven’t gotten picked for prayer-duties or as an apprentice of a craft yet, and…”

Laughter interrupting his words, puzzling him to an extent. The sound a nice one though, gruff and raspy, rare.

“They are jealous Javed! Only jealous! You are the boy of four nations, a Miles, a defender. You loose, because you are pitted against people far older and stronger than you. You do not need to be picked, because you already are. You were from the moment you first trained and showed talent far beyond our wildest hopes.”

“But what…?!”

Javed’s sentence trailing off in the face of Zosimos benevolent smile, white hair in a stiff ponytail at the back of his grandfather’s head, the gold-studded leather armour glinting in the midday sun.

“Whom did I serve before coming here to oversee your training? Who is your father serving?”

“You served at the palace, as father is doing now. We guard it from intruders, and…”

Head shaken in front of him, Javed stopped in his explanations. Instead watched as his grandfather’s face adopted a solemn look. Voice deep when he spoke, formal. Proud.

“We do not just protect the palace Javed, our line stands next to the rulers of this land. I stood next to the King by day and your father now stands in front of his doors by night. We are protectors, defenders and consultants. Friends too, at times.”

The truth hitting him then, the stories he’d heard not exaggerated, nor made up.

Often he’d listened in when the adults talked after nightfall, forbidden to or not. Had heard stories of the King and Queen, of funny and scary developments. Had listened in when his grandfather spoke of his friend having send him away, not even for a second having considered that this friend they’d talked about could be the person all their lives were sworn to.

His grandfather continued, a smile on his face.

“And soon you’ll stand by the side of Prince Akeem, be his shield, his sword, and if Ishvala so wishes also as his friend.”

* * *

Part 2 – Olivier

She stopped seeing the people in front of her even before they began to sing.

The swords swirling in her hands, wrists feeling almost loose, not hurting for even a second. The blades circling at her sides, while her feet moved firmly a step forth and then a step back, almost swaying in motion. Her breath did not catch when the blades crossed in front of her face, narrowly passing each other, nothing heard as clearly then as _their_ song. A constant part of this tradition, the sound of sharp blades cutting through nothing but air. Accompanied by human song, by sharp intakes of breath when she started to circle over her head, when the blades missed her skin more narrowly then before.

Some stopped in their singing when she started to move stronger, when the blades moved not both clockwise lead by her hands, but one started to counter, creating an even more enthralling dance. It was a sign of perfection to stay in rhythm then, of mastery and she noted without fanfare but still with a slight lurch of her heart that she was doing it. Was doing it _well_. No thoughts coming to her mind anymore when she started to turn then, slowly picking up the pace until she was swirling in the great hall. Blades turning, her body turning and the musicians going faster every third beat.

She could keep up.

Singing had stopped from all those that weren't from the meadows at the middle of Amestris, hadn't been born into this tradition, gripped by fear instead. Just last year one of the daughters from her father’s liege had tried her hand at the sabre dance and hurt herself. She knew she wouldn't though.

Jumped each beat now, ten times, the blades crossing in front of her face. Heard the gasps, felt her face flush and let it be split by a grin. And then she pointed one tip to the sky, one tip to the floor and let her right leg cross behind her left, the tip of her shoe hovering over the fine tiles of the great hall.

Breathed hard when the people cheered, though did not see, blinked the sweat away that now threatened to drip into her eyes. Only felt hands on hers, taking the sabres softly, and the voice of her favourite guard.

"Incredible little Princess, dangerous yet incredible!"

Hermann’s accent was still so clear to hear, from the west, brusque and yet so kind. Her mother’s voice, just as warm though devoid of any accent, filled her ears, a soft cloth wiping at her eyes with care.

"I am so proud of you my Mira, so proud! You learned the sabre dance so well, you trained so hard for it!"

Her chin held with a lax grip by her mother, though Olivier did not want to wind out of it, even if she could've. Instead looked into her mother’s eyes, shining with pride. Let herself be kissed on the cheek and hugged tightly right after. Her mother whispering now, smile heard but not seen in their tight embrace.

"You could hear the fear of those not knowing what a girl can do through their silence. And you struck fear into a lot of hearts today my Mira, they are _shaking_! All that came before us, all that are now, are so proud of you!"

Another kiss to her cheek, her mother always having been fond of smooching her plenty, yet she could not be angry today. Usually did not like it, only occasionally allowing her mother to kiss her cheek, certainly not with the whole court around though. _Usually_.

Neither she let herself be lifted by her father anymore, was twelve after all, almost a lady if the words of some of the women at court were true. Her maids claiming that she was far from it, but quite alright still. Hermann claiming that she _could_ be a lady, if she _wanted_ to be, but that it was alright to not want that. Especially at her age. And as today was the day of not doing things the usual way, Olivier found herself on her father’s left shoulder.

Sat there, her father a stout and strong man, not caring that her skirts puffed up against his face. Instead took her hands in his, lifted her arms by stretching his own to the sky. A spring to his step that jostled the laughter out of her.

"Little lovely Liv, what a great dancer you have become!"

Laughed himself, a deep thrum shaking the earth and forcing a smile, fake or not, out of even his most sceptical liege. Swayed some more with her, laughed with her and kissed her forehead before he sat her down again a few minutes later, their walk through the great hall, towards the king’s hall, completed. Walked next to him for a good long while, the king’s hall decorated, and tables set up around the room, the smell of roasted meat and vegetables wafting through the air.

Midsummer was the biggest day of the people that were native to the central region of Amestris, often forgotten not only by the plentiful mingling of cultures at the court, but simply because it was overshadowed with all the politics going on, by all the unspoken rules of the court that seemed like traditions to those not knowing. Yet with her father King and having been raised with the traditions of the meadows, her mother too, her grandparents, it was sure to not be forgotten for a good long while. Her family proud of it after all, proud to teach her siblings and her too.

Smoothed out her dress, with no fight having let herself be helped into it, cherishing the white layers of cloth, topped off by a blackish pinafore, over and over embroiled with little colourful flowers. Felt a maid fiddle with the white and also embroiled cap on her head, the string undone after a few more moments and her blonde hair tumbling down.

All royalty kept it long was what her teacher had told her, to be visibly different from those not of high standing, as caring for long hair took time and resources. That this though had softened a little under her father’s rule, the way of forcefully chopping peasant’s hair off regularly forgone by most of those having sworn themselves to him.

The cap worn during the sabre dance by all girls that have not had their first moon blood yet, a way to keep girls too young, not trained well enough in the dance yet, too ambitious, from accidently cutting off their own hair during the dance. It had happened before her mother told her, to many people, yet was always considered a bad omen.

Hermann by her side nudging her, leading her towards the table of her father.

Olivier knew the looks she received, had seen them before, felt how they burrowed under her skin and still ignored it. Instead pushed back her shoulders like her mother had said, steadied her step while walking towards the table. Hermann pulling out the chair for her, putting it back closer to the table, bowing when she said her thanks. Many of the men at her father’s table greeting her, praising her dance, especially those that had grown up with the tradition also.

Yet she'd learned early on that her input was not wanted by many of the men her father was surrounded by. _"Women-folk should not concern themselves with the business of men!"_ she'd heard quiet often, as well as variations of it and always felt anger well up at that. Could not remember when her sitting on her father’s knee during court or private meetings had turned from drawing silly pictures to engaging in the discussion, yet it _had_ happened.

And her father, many others too, seemed to welcome her opinions, however rarely or often she voiced them, or was asked to do so. But there were just as many that were of an opinion different to her father, not thinking about the things women and men were to do like those she grew up with. Of course they did not dare to go against the king to vocally, yet they still dared to whisper, to look.

And she'd learned early on that some men rather talked _about_ you, then with you.

"My King, do not get me wrong, but is learning swordplay for a princess, betrothed to the future King of Drachma to boot, really necessary?"

Olivier had never liked Raved, coming from the lands out west, her mother always cautioning her against being caught alone by him. Her father taking these words though, turning them against the Margraven.

"Count Raven, Princess Olivier is carrying on the great tradition of our people. A women of age to speak about war needs to be able to fight in it too, I think we've talked about this before. The core of Amestris always appreciated the opinions of their people. _All_ of them."

Grinned into herself at these words, knew that her father could twist words and opinions around in one’s mouth, with his sharp tongue often winning battles before they'd truly began. Had told her, to well-hidden appreciation on her part, of how he conquered his wife, her mother, with his wits. The daughter of the Hand of the King she'd been, not promised yet, and her father the sixth of seven children. Grandfather had let him marry who he wanted, had let him strengthen the bonds inside his castle with this marriage. But it hadn't proven as easy, her mother smart herself, with a clear image of how she'd wanted her future husband to be.

To this day Olivier had to laugh when either told her of the many dumb jokes it had taken for them to become a pair. Nobody even imagining that Philip Gargantos Armstrong, the sixth Prince of seven, would be the only one of seven sons to not fall in the war, to survive and rise to the throne of Amestris, following her grandfather.

This story the first of many probably meant to teach her that even the most unlikely things were still likely enough to happen.

Raven thoroughly shut up by her father the conversation turned to matters of less serious nature yet remained political to the core.

“And you have heard the rumours of course that the Emperor of Xing is growing anxious?”

“He has only one other son, yes, and from what one hears he’d never wanted for the boy to follow him on the throne. But if the Yao-clan truly did revoke their loyalty to the Emperor…”

“It could mean war for sure, unclear succession always does. The Yao boy was the favoured child of the Emperor as far as I know, if young still.”

“My sister, you will remember she married an Ishvalan liege to their King, in a letter wrote me that the boy was well-liked by the other clans too, that the leading caste had arranged itself with the succession.”

“It will bring about upheaval, I’m sure of it. We’ll have to watch the trade. Though as we are on the topic of Ishval, does anybody know if the rumours are true? Is the Queen with child again?”

The conversation breaking up then, into several smaller ones. As such Olivier ate mostly in silence, the men at the table preoccupied with their chatter. Enjoyed the roasted meat of a boar, had been by her fathers’ side during the hunt, after a long time finally allowed to accompany him. She’d heard the hushed voices of many of his liege then too.

_“One wild princess you are raising there my King, if you do not mind my thoughts on the matter”_

_Her father had laughed heartily._

_“Do not take me for a fool Ulrich, I am not raising a princess. I am raising a Queen!”_

Olivier had only then truly understood what it meant that she was betrothed already, to a prince not even born. She’d be much older than her husband, would probably carry many burdens in his stead, would maybe even have to rule. When seeing how the other young girls her age talked about betrothals and what was expected of them, she felt like she’d gotten almost lucky.

Her father nudging her out of her thoughts, smiling down on her, voice warm and low.

“How about you go and play with your sibling a bit, my little Liv? Maybe take some of the other kids with you too? The daughters of Count Gardner truly look like they could do with some fun for a change.”

She’d truly started to feel bored, the men at the table only exchanging truly idle chatter now, lowly trying to speak about trade routes and good lands to buy and where to go best for entertainment in the city.

“I guess I could show them the dogs and horses.”

“I bet they would like that.”

Another smile, and because it was such a day where she let her father get away with things she usually didn’t, she received another kiss to her forehead. Squeezed her father’s hand in response, smiled, and went to collect her sisters and all other children that wanted to come and have some fun out in the courtyard.

Heard Hermann call after her when she was just out of the side-door, his words making her giggle.

“My Princess, wait! Do not run off yet _again_ please!"

* * *

Part 3 – Scar

"Your turn!"

He screamed with laughter, ran from his brother with huge steps and did not care about the slopes and stones in his way. Instead just ran, manoeuvring to avoid his brother and tried to evade the sound of heavy breathing at his back. The wall of the palace nearing him quickly, at which he turned once more, running alongside it for many moments before once more evading his brothers’ hands when turning sharply.

Just to be met with a grinning Javed, whom he ran into, thrown to the ground by the impact.

"Suhail, are you alright?"

Akeem's face above him, as well as Javed's. Both with tightly pressed together lips and wide eyes.

He laughed once more.

"You worked together! That's unfair!"

Laughed more then, got up, the sound of first his brother and then Javed joining in making the sounds be thrown back and forth by the low walls. Asha joining them in the palace garden, a basket of laundry in her hands, waving for them to come over. They all quickly did, Scar outrunning his brother and their youngest guard, the two walking over normally.

Breathed heavily when Asha smiled down on him.

"Well, weren't you three having fun? I'd say moving to the Sapphire Palace suits you?"

Suhail had not been sad when moving from the old castle at the cities centre, loving the place too with all his heart, but always having felt restless there, nothing private and at all times overcrowded with people. They hadn't been ever able to play in the courtyard because of the crowds there, nor had they ever been able to be loud, someone seemingly _always_ offended. And now here, in what was called the Sapphire Palace, a huge house not far from the castle, but with its own grounds, he could be loud and laugh and play and run around, and all people ever did were smile back, or softly chide him if he truly got _too_ loud.

"It does, yes! It's so _big_!"

Not bigger than the castle, but still. And mother was so much happier too here, had told him that she liked being able to truly retire at night, to not always be only a knock away at any time of day. Only that father had not moved with them, stayed at the castle, made him feel sad. He'd just started to read him stories every night after all, to truly talk to him.

"And you two, Akeem, Javed, you like it here too?"

His big brother nodding, the glasses sliding down a fraction on his nose and pushed up with a lanky finger.

"It is really nice, I can study in peace now and while I like to talk with all the foreign envoys and our people, I cherish not being available all the time."

Suhail knowing that Akeem was the best big brother one could have, always finding the time to play some with him, despite being more than three and a half years older. He was always kind, studied hard and treated everyone with respect. He'd be a great king one day.

"It is nice Ma'am and it's much easier to keep the Princes safe here. It is not so crowded."

Akeem bumping into Javed's shoulder at that, grinning.

"Sure, _only_ ever protecting us on your mind."

"It's my duty and honour!"

"As is playing catch!"

The two older boys going back and forth in their words, almost quick enough to make his head spin, Suhail turned to Asha again.

"Where we too loud Asha?"

She'd set the basket down at her feet and cocked her head to the side at his words.

"No, nothing of the sort little Prince. I came to tell you that your father is on his way here, as is your mother. You should ready yourselves."

Mood turning sombre at that, at least judging by the way his brother and Javed suddenly held themselves. Suhail only felt giddy.

"I've not seen Dad in _weeks_!"

Raced past Asha at that, upstairs, to change out of the kameez he always wore in the garden, smudged with dirt and spittle from the horses and camels, throwing on a clean one, sheer white as one was to wear in the presence of the King. Asha coming in past him, a damp cloth in hand, wiping at his face and combing back his hair.

"Your locks have really gotten long my Prince; shall we give them a cut soon?"

"I like them like this Asha!"

"Shall I teach you then how to braid? Your teacher surely told you that riding horses and camels with open hair is dangerous?"

He noticed that her hands were shaking just a little when she pulled his hair back, with a small ivory pin fastening it to the back of his head. The way she overly-careful smoothed out his kameez, rubbing at a stain on his cheek he was sure wasn't there.

"Asha, why is father coming to visit now?"

Suhail suddenly felt a weight in his stomach, felt almost sick. Hands cupping his face when he swayed a little, forcing his eyes to look into hers. Asha's eyes the same shade of warm red that so many eyes of his people were but looking almost watery.

"The messenger said that he wants to see you little Prince, I'm sure he missed you!"

He'd learned to tell when people lied, Javed had taught him.

Yet he followed Asha down the stairs, stood at the foot of them next to Akeem, also dressed in fresh and clean clothes, hair much shorter than his, slicked back as to not fall into his eyes. Javed a few paces behind them, looking older and taller suddenly, wearing his armour and carrying his weapon at his hip. Those working at the house standing at the other side of the hall, in a row and whispering amongst each other.

A guard announcing his father, interrupted by the man himself walking past him at a brusque pace. Their mother at his back.

"My King, he is but a child! The second to the throne! Have you learned nothing from history, nothing from what happened to our allies?!"

Nobody gasped, yet many of the staff seemingly wanted to or did it silently at least. They were a married couple, the formal rules were eased for them of course, his teacher had told Suhail that upon asking. But this was blatant disrespect, especially as it seemed to be tied to matters of the throne and country. His father showing now anger though, only hard resolve when whipping around to his wife.

"The life of the Princess was taken because of our lack of respect for Ishvala! _For we take, and we give and we shall only force the most awful of sinners to repent!"_

It was a verse from the scrolls, Suhail had learned it early on. They often were at the house of prayer during festivities, Akeem had told him that it was their duty as royalty.

That they were role-models for the people.

" _Children neither are taken nor given by us, that is what the mortals do. We, Ishvala, only bless, but never condemn_. You taught me these words!"

The feeling in his stomach deepening some more, his hands clenching of their own accord, Suhail had to think about his sister. She'd have been Queen, Ishval was led by Queens and not Kings, if there were any. But as his father had been the only child of the last Queen, his grandmother, he was King now. They only called his mother Queen, because she was the Kings wife. And as Asha had once told him they called his mother Queen also, because she'd taken over most of the daily business, his father over the years having become more and more involved with the faith.

"Our daughter has! Died because we did not offer Ishvala enough of us, because we in our boundlessness did not stop to even once consider _them_ , who give and take life!"

"And what do you intend to do now to change that? The dead cannot be brought back!"

His mother was the most beautiful women in the world Suhail thought, with her long white hair, her dark skin. The eyes seeming so much redder than those of all others he'd ever met. She was kind, calm, yet forceful. And never had he seen her so full of fury as she seemed now.

"I will appease to our god and repent, _wife_!"

Akeem had told him that his father turned to the faith so much more when their little sister had died only a day after being born, because of how sad he was. She'd been so small, so beautiful and yet she'd not made it, even after the alchemist that had been a guest to the court had tried his best to save her life.

His brother had explained to him that it sadly sometimes happened that children died, however unfair that was, however sad. They'd buried her and, as she'd not been old enough to be given a name by their customs, Akeem and he had given her a name themselves, in secret. He missed Halima. And Javed had later told him that their father did too, so badly that he was going mad.

His father, face thin, mangled, suddenly kneeling before him, voice too loud this up close.

"Suhail, first of your name, you will come with me. Given to Ishvala you will be and learn to life in a god-fearing way, something the Queen refuses to do."

"Father, I..."

A gasp going through the staff, Akeem putting a hand to his back, softly. You did not interrupt the King when he decreed something officially and in front of witnesses.

"Come!"

Akeem's hand to his shoulder replaced by one much larger, gripping him tighter and steering him towards the door.

"So you will take this child from me too?! Has Ishvala not taught you compassion!?"

Steered towards the door he turned once more, seeing Javed hold Akeem back, seeing his mother stand tall, yet with tears running down her face.

"Mother!"

The grip around him tightened.

"Miles, you will keep the crown prince safe! And you wife, will do what needs to be done! Counsel from the High Priest would be of benefit for you!"

Javed stood tall, _was_ their guard after all, yet looked shocked. His crying mother now consoled by Akeem, while the door was shut to this view and Suhail felt himself hoisted up onto a horseback, his father sitting behind him not a moment later.

"How old are you boy?"

He'd always loved his father, always. He was often away, negotiating or at war, had been a great warrior, still was. He had little time for Akeem and him, but every second had been precious, every single one. And now, as Suhail felt that he _should_ be happy, he couldn't be.

"Eight, father."

"More than old enough then. A warrior you will become, a warrior monk in the name of Ishvala, stronger than ten knights. We'll cut your hair, and have you look like a man."

The horse walked quickly, the men surrounding them not even looking at him, only ever straight ahead.

"Where are we going father?"

He received no answer, his father only speaking to himself it seemed.

"We'll need to forget your name, monks have to choose a new one after all. Characteristics are usual, specialties about the named person. A name that will humble you. Let me think."

For the first time he felt truly looked at, felt younger suddenly, not like the boy that could read and do math and ride a camel. One of his hands lifted up by his father, looked at with intent.

"This is the scar you gained when you fell from a horse for the first time, is it not?"

He nodded.

"Ishvala cannot hear your movements boy!"

The harsh tone making him, and by extension the horse, jump a bit.

"Yes father."

"And you still have the one from when you slashed your knee during your first-time training with the sword too, the one you'd brought onto yourself when you'd gotten cocky?"

This time Suhail knew better.

"Yes father."

"Then Scar shall be your name from now on. It will be sure to humble you and make you think of the failures hubris brings."

He remained silent at that, waiting and looking at the city that they were riding past. It struck him that only months ago the people had always cheered when their king had ridden past. His father still speaking to himself more than to him.

"You'll be a little praise to Ishvala in no time at all!"


	2. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a hundred years finally a new chapter :D  
> The story for this one I have planned out, so I only ever need the time to write it, but you guys know how it sometimes goes >.> I try to get the next one out sooner though! The Chap is rather short, though I feel that this lends itself well to the differing persectives, as it will be important later. So not as many words, but as the plan for Chap 3 is much longer, you'll probably get more on this front too ;)
> 
> Have fun reading and please tell me what you think :D

“This is a spectacle without any dignity!”

Watched with disgust on his face as speeches were held, while the last young woman of the day was brought to stand only a step away from the border, maids starting to strip her.

It should be a joyous occasion; the war with Amestris had ended, no thanks to the ever-only discussing elders. After _years_ this only happening thanks to young Princes and Princesses, young nobility of all standings, offering a deal. The Princess of Amestris at the helm of it, after a visit to the war encampments with her father, the King, strengthened in her believe that a non-violent solution had to be found quickly.

It was the only thing making this spectacle somewhat bearable.

Saw several known faces just over the border, General’s he’d fought against in his position as warrior monk of the clergy and as part of royalty. Raven standing out to him, almost leering at the young woman being undressed. They’d fought in a valley not more than half a day’s travel away, six months ago. By an inch he’d missed the man then, seconds before a sound of a battle horn had divided both sides in confusion. _Then_ they’d not known that the end of the war had come.

Had a fierce gaze, the woman named Olivier Mira Armstrong. No muscle moving when pale skin was bared, traditional dress the women of central Amestris wore with care taken from her body, folded by the shaking hands of the maids. Nimble fingers working on removing undergarments, a laced bodice, with much less dexterity than usual he was sure.

Scar had heard from Miles, the Queens envoy present during negotiations, that Princess Olivier had offered the deal herself. Had been promised, basically since birth, to the then soon-to-be-born future King of Drachma. Raised as such, for many years, even though a future drachman King remained unborn. The deal the Kings of Amestris and Drachma made had held though, Princess Olivier in later years raised with the thought in mind that she would reign with an infant husband by her side most probably.

All of these plans having been brushed away by the Drachman King dying without heirs.

Miles had told him on the way here that the Princess had not been married quickly by her father, twenty-one already and raised to be nothing less than a Queen. Had decided that his daughter’s approval was key for her to be married, numerous suitors as such sent away. Rumor having it that the woman’s stubbornness played not a little part in it too, her desire to do something meaningful with her fate.

Now she would go on to marry his brother, Akeem having accepted during negotiations, even if he couldn’t be here today because of skirmishes at the xingese border. Several grooms and brides exchanged today, fourteen young adults of high standing going to marry Ishvalans, thirteen of their own going to Amestris in exchange.

It was a good deal, promising for the future as both countries would be tied with more than one string.

The only thing making him nervous in a way that his brother, even though the clergy denied something like this to be natural, was not interested in women. Or rather their bodies, as he’d often heard Akeem talk about mind-rousing conversations he’d had, complimenting wits and will whenever he saw it.

Akeem was interested in men sexually; it had taken years for Scar to understand that properly. When observing his older brother and their guard as a child he’d wished for a friendship just like they had. Then he’d understood that while their friendship was something special indeed, he’d not wanted one _exactly_ like theirs. Was simply worried, because Akeem was the first in line for the throne. An heiress was expected of him and his new wife, intercourse was needed for that to happen he’d learned from the priests.

And intercourse could only happen if one was attracted to another person.

The Princess during his musings bared completely, all speeches having ended. Clips taken out of her hair, one of the maids removing earrings, a necklace, a ring on her finger. One of the maids handed the Princess a white piece of cloth, wet and steaming from the warm water, with which she wiped her face.

No trace of your old life was allowed to cling to you during this ritual, or it all would be for naught.

When the border was stepped over there was a strip the length of five horses that only the future bride and groom were allowed to set their feet on, as such the way the princess would have to walk bare. And only because her groom was not here today, couldn’t be here today, to save her dignity.

Princess Olivier Mira Armstrong stepping over the border with a sure step, not looking back, not looking at the tears her mother was shedding right now. Only looked forward, seemingly not perturbed by the leering of old men, by the staring of skeptical women.

“Why can I not go and cover her in brother’s stead?! To make a _spectacle_ out of this, to bare her like this in front of the whole court!”

His mother looking over sharply at his words, Miles too, though the latter not getting a chance to stop him before his mother’s sharp tongue did.

“It is the tradition Scar, only the groom can go. See it as the last fight she has to face alone!”

And she did, walking on, beautiful even to him.

Had known already that this day would be a disgusting one when one of the elder Priests had instructed them to bind their undergarments tightly, a show of male desire among them a great disgrace to the whole clergy. Weren’t they _beyond_ that, was it necessary?

When other’s squirmed next to him, on both sides nobody bared for more than a few seconds before being covered up by their counterpart, he wondered no more. Had to think about how they were all training together since well before puberty, that these desires should not even arise in such a situation. It just wasn’t right.

Especially as most young men and women had been clearly embarrassed, scared, and sad to leave their families.

Princess Olivier seeming fearless though, walking proudly, head held high and blonde hair shining in the sun. Had a slender body, full in all the places he heard were the right ones. Did not flinch, did not smile and did not look angry. Simply passive, proud, at all the stares, the people whispering.

Walked towards his mother, the groom’s mother, Queen Haleema awaiting her.

A sheet of silk in her hands, the finest there was Scar knew. Never would his brother settle for less when it came to his new wife, never would she be covered in a cloak made of wool, or even linen. Would have been covered the second her feet were over the border if things had gone differently. Would never be stared at by the court of her own father, by the court she was one day to help govern.

This was the body that would continue their line, the woman that would raise their new generation. Her mindset, her way of doing things, would most probably be adopted in parts by their next in line to the throne, the following generation would be shaped by her.

And they were disgracing her like this, acting as if the tradition that had been started to ensure nothing more than that a Prince could marry a _pretty_ woman was the holiest of all.

The Princess standing before his mother, only a horse-length or so away from him, determination on her face. Was not helped into the sheet of silk, but rather handed it, covered herself from the overly curious gazes.

Did not seem scared, not troubled, nor ashamed. Instead nodded when his mother greeted her, standing to the Queens left after a gentle gesture. Looked regal in the turquoise silk, like it was a dress, not just a piece of cloth held together by a string

The last speech made by one of the many royals in attendance, while exchanged children, grown-up or not, looked at their families one last time. Scar observing as people waved, cried, called out a last goodbye.

The crown Prince of Amestris waving franticly, a boy of barely ten years. The girls behind him too, though the young boy stood out to him, how nobody shushed him for the tears running down his cheeks, how his father hugged him to ease the pain of parting. Caught the slight wave of the Princess, the ghost of _something_ on her face.

Visits would soon be allowed, once all marriages were consummated, but until then communication would be barred. If one backed out the whole deal would blow, war starting anew. Nobody wanting that, except for the few feeling screwed over by it all. Mostly those not having scoured a new and _exotic_ partner.

Inwardly Scar allowed himself to shudder.

Groups dispersing after a few last words, last waves, the Queen and her entourage to which he counted circled by a ring of his fellow warrior monks, towards carriages, horses and camels. Could not hear what his mother said to Princess Olivier, but understood the gesture, hand around the young woman’s wrist, well enough.

An apology from the Queen was said to be worth more than the average person’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had fun :D  
> Anything to tell me? ;)
> 
> (atm the replies I write to your comments don't seem to send, but I'm already looking into it! If you need/want an immediate answer you'll have to use my tumblr. It's in a link in the other box ;) )

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, please send me a line if you licked it <3


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